


An Unexpected Future

by nlans



Series: Naia Tabris [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friendship, People who are terrible at expressing their feelings, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair turned down Morrigan, and his best friend Naia Tabris wasn't about to push the issue. So why is she still alive?</p><p>(I wrote this a while ago and thought it would be fun to post!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not the ending they expected

* * *

  

“You want to kill the archdemon. Andraste’s ass, Alistair, are you mad?” Naia snarled.

“It’s my first and last act as King, the best thing I can do for my people,” the other Warden argued. “And I never would have passed up Morrigan’s offer if I knew …” He swallowed hard. “If I knew you’d be the one to die. You deserve better than that, Naia.”

Well, she couldn't argue with that. “Of course I do,” she agreed matter-of-factly. “But so do you, and only one of us can put Ferelden back together when this is done.”

Naia reached out and put her hand on Alistair’s arm; when he met her eyes, she smiled encouragingly. “You’re going to be a great king. See that the elves get some fair treatment for once, or I’ll come back to haunt you.”

Alistair closed his eyes, nodding in acquiescence, and Naia saw a tear trickle down the ex-Templar’s cheek.

She blinked back answering tears in her own eyes. Damn it, she didn’t want to die, but there was no way out of this. Her friend was too important to Ferelden’s future. It had to be her.

As she turned towards the archdemon, she caught a glimpse of Zevran’s face. The assassin’s expression was dark, unreadable, and she wondered how much he’d heard, whether he understood what was about to happen. Her stomach twisted with something remarkably like guilt. _Should I say goodbye?_

_Bah. No sense getting emotional now._

Nonetheless, a force compelled her to turn back to her fellow Warden. “Alistair?”

The King nodded, reaching for his sword. Naia shook her head. “Not that. Just … tell Zev I’m sorry, all right?”

“Sorry? Sorry for what?”

Naia didn’t answer. She wished she knew.

She took a deep breath and then she was running, as hard and as fast as she could, as hard and as fast as she’d run as a child when her mother challenged her to a race. She reached out a hand for a broadsword stuck in the neck of a nearby Darkspawn—Fang wasn’t going to do the job, not this time—grasped it in her fingers, and pulled it out. When she reached the Archdemon she swung the heavy blade with all the strength she could summon and brought it down just behind the dragon’s skull.

A searing yellow light consumed Naia’s vision. She could feel the archdemon moving its head, fighting her, and she twisted the blade until she felt its neck snap.

The yellow light exploded. An invisible force flung her backwards, as easily as if she’d been a rag doll. Then she saw darkness. Then, nothing.

* 

Flickers of consciousness pulled at the edges of Naia’s mind. She felt as if she were falling, falling through empty space, falling towards nothing at all. _Am I in the Fade?_ she wondered. Her thoughts seemed to come more slowly than usual. _Better not be any Sloth demons. I killed a bloody Archdemon, I’m above Sloth demons …_

The falling seemed to slow. Her body, which had been perfectly numb, started to regain feeling. Her head hurt, and her arms, and her back, and … well, more or less everywhere hurt.

A face appeared in front of her. Wynne’s. Naia tried to reach out her hand for her friend’s but her arm was heavier than she remembered.

“Wynne … are you dead too?” she whispered.

The healer raised her eyebrows. “No, I am not. And neither are you. I am disturbed that you have so little faith in my skill. I’ve fixed much worse these past months.” Despite Wynne’s sharp words, Naia could see relief in the mage’s eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Atop Fort Drakon. The Darkspawn are retreating below. You did it, Naia,” Wynne said proudly.

Naia sat up, then quickly pressed a hand to her forehead. Large black spots danced in her vision and she heard a strange ringing noise in her ears. “Ooof. Are … are you sure we’re not dead? I’m supposed to be dead.”

Wynne frowned at her. “You’re not dead. I should know, I’m something of an expert. See, here’s Zevran, and Alistair is taking care of the last of the Darkspawn up here.”

The elven assassin was hovering behind Wynne’s shoulder, watching Naia with an odd look on his face. Relief? Anger? When Naia’s eyes met his, Zevran’s expression shifted to his usual arrogant smile. “I should have known a mere archdemon would not accomplish what I could not,” he said cheerfully. “Come now, can you walk? The dead dragon is a rather unpleasant sight. To say nothing of the smell.”

Naia’s answer was interrupted by the sound of someone running towards them in heavy armor. Before she could react, Alistair was crushing her in a very steely and uncomfortable hug. “Maker’s breath, Naia! You’re … you’re all right!”

“For goodness’ sake, Alistair, it’s just a bump on her head,” Wynne scolded him.

Alistair pulled away. “You’re all right,” he repeated, a slightly foolish grin on his face. “Naia, you’re extraordinary. The greatest Grey Warden Ferelden has ever seen!”

Naia smiled back— _a hero from Denerim’s alienage? Imagine that! Mother would be so proud—_ but a sudden thought made her stomach drop in dismay.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You’re not getting me that easily!” she snapped. “Show yourselves, demons. I’m no fool. This isn’t real. It can’t be.”

Alistair turned to Wynne. “Just a bump on the head, eh?”

“This isn’t the Fade, child,” Wynne said reassuringly. “Alistair, carry her, would you?”

The King lifted her in his arms easily. “Come on, hero. Let’s get off this roof.”

Naia made no protest—Fade or not, it felt rather nice to know she wouldn’t have to climb back down—but her eyes sought Zevran. The assassin stood perfectly still, watching, and made no attempt to follow as the new King carried his comrade off the roof. Naia closed her eyes. _Maker’s breath, Zev,_ she thought as she drifted back into unconsciousness. _Just tell me what I did._

 

* * *

 

Shianni felt sick as she approached the Royal Palace. When the dwarf Oghren and the Orlesian bard Leliana had appeared in the alienage, looking for Naia’s family, she had volunteered to go immediately. Her uncle Cyrion had taken a Darkspawn arrow to the thigh during the defense of the alienage; he would be all right, but she didn’t want him moving just now. And Soris was the one with the herbalist skills, they needed him back home. But she hadn’t realized how frightening it would be to enter a shem lord’s palace after … well, after.

Her dwarven companion mistook the reason for her nervousness. “That Warden’s tough as a bloody golem. Gonna take more than a knock on the head to do her in.”

Shianni forced a laugh. “Trust me, I know.”

“I didn’t think they made elves that tough—no offense,” the dwarf continued.

“You should have seen her mother,” said Shianni, smiling faintly.

The chamber where they’d taken Naia was large and luxurious, but despite its size it felt very crowded. Alistair, Naia’s fellow Warden, sat hunched over in a chair, his face drawn and worried. The qunari, Sten, stood next to a hulking stone statue— _Maker’s breath, what_ is _that?—_ at the far wall. The mabari hound Duncan sat at the qunari’s feet, his intelligent head tilted in concern for his mistress. A grey-haired mage, the one who’d fought aside Naia at the alienage, was kneeling by her bedside, murmuring quietly and examining the patient. Add in Leliana, Oghren, and Shianni herself, and there was barely room to move.

“Naia?” asked Shianni, pushing her way to her cousin’s side. The pretty elf seemed to be sleeping, though she’d clearly had a rough night even after killing the Darkspawn general at the alienage. The tunic she’d worn underneath her armor was stiff with grime and sweat and blood. Someone had made an effort to clean her hands and face but her hair was still matted and filthy.

“Don’t worry. Blood’s not hers,” Oghren said.

“Who … oh, of course, Shianni,” said the mage. “I’m Wynne. How did you …?”

“I sent for Naia’s family,” Alistair volunteered. “I thought, in case …”

“She is not going to die!” cried out Leliana.

“She certainly isn’t,” snapped Wynne. “Will you stop worrying, Alistair? She’s sleeping. The woman stops a Blight and you’re alarmed that she wants a bit of a nap?” When no one looked less worried, the mage stood, placed her hands on her hips, and issued a withering glare at the room. “Enough. Everyone out. Everyone not related to Naia,” she amended with a quick smile at Shianni.

With varying degrees of reluctance, the rest of the room obeyed the healer’s orders—except for the dog, who gave Wynne a defiant sniff and planted himself at the foot of his mistress’s bed. Wynne pretended not to notice.

Shianni waited for the companions to trudge out before turning to the mage. “She’s really all right?”

“Of course,” Wynne replied. “She took a hit to the head and she was a bit confused before she fell asleep again—she thought we were back in the thrall of a demon we defeated—but she’s fine.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to let people sleep when they hit their heads,” Shianni said, staring doubtfully at her cousin’s still form.

“I assure you, I know what I’m doing,” the mage said dryly. “I healed the head injury, but she needs sleep to recover her strength. That’s all.”

Shianni looked back at the mage. “Then, I think you could use some rest yourself. I’ll watch her and send for you if I need anything.”

Wynne looked as if she was about to argue, but she chuckled and nodded instead. “Indeed. I am in the room next door if you need me.”

As Wynne made her exit, Shianni pulled a comfortable chair up next to her cousin’s bedside, wondering if she should have sent Soris after all. Aside from the blood, Naia looked well, her breathing even and her coloring good, but would Shianni really be able to tell if she needed help? “Cousin?” Shianni whispered.

“Mmmm. Go ‘way, Shianni. I don’t wanna get married,” Naia mumbled, turning on her side. “My father can’t tell me what to do.”

Shianni laughed under her breath. “Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to be telling you what to do ever again,” she said fondly, pulling the bed’s quilt over her cousin’s form.


	2. Cousins

* * *

 

Shianni soon fell asleep in the chair, but her light dozing was interrupted some time later when she heard a creak outside Naia’s door.

She paused for a moment, listening, and then heard another creak. Her heart began to pound. _I knew these damned shems couldn’t be trusted._ Frantically, she looked around the room and spotted Naia’s daggers, neatly sheathed and set on the bedside table. She slid one from its scabbard, gripped it tight, and pulled the door open just a crack.

A familiar-looking elf was pacing the floorboards in front of Naia’s room, his arms crossed tight across his chest and his face grim. Zevran, that was his name—one of the companions Naia had brought to the alienage when she’d come to clean out the Tevinters.

Shianni raised an eyebrow. “You want to come in and see her, or are you just going to wear out your boots?” she asked, setting the dagger on a nearby table as she opened the door.

The elf met her gaze, startled, then he smiled at her. “Ah. Shianni. I remember you, of course. As lovely as your cousin.”

“You said that in the alienage too. Are you coming in or what?”

“I … I do not wish to disturb her,” Zevran said hesitantly. “I just wanted to know if she is all right.”

“Wynne says she’s fine,” Shianni assured him. “I’m keeping her company for now. Me and the dog. She’s sleeping, she seems pretty peaceful.”

As if to spite her cousin, Naia suddenly cried out, and Shianni rushed back into the room. Naia was fitfully kicking the blankets and thrashing about, her face frightened and her breath ragged.

“I’m getting Wynne,” Shianni snapped, rushing towards the door.

Zevran stepped in her path and gently caught her shoulders. “It’s all right. This is normal for her. She has … dreams. It will pass in a moment.”

Shianni looked back at her cousin doubtfully, but indeed, Naia’s terror soon subsided and her breathing evened. Shianni pulled at the bedcovers to smooth them, then turned back to Zevran. “It seems you were right. Just how do you know what my cousin does when she sleeps, anyway?”

“When you camp together under the stars it is hard not to notice things like that,” the elf said casually. “For instance, the dwarf, Oghren, snores like a giant bellows. It is most unpleasant.”

“Naia said you’d been sleeping in tents,” Shianni replied. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve seen the inside of hers?”

Zevran laughed. “You Tabris women. Do you all have red hair, devastating smiles, and an endless supply of probing questions?”

“Do all Antivans avoid answering questions?” Shianni rolled her eyes. “Go get some sleep. I’ll tell her you were here.”

“No!” said the elf quickly. Shianni blinked in surprise, and Zevran continued. “I mean, there is no need. I will see her when she wakes. You need not tell her … I am sure she will be busy tomorrow, no?”

Shianni shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose.”

“Good night, Shianni. I am glad you are here for her.” Zevran bowed to her and quietly left the room.

Shianni watched him go with raised eyebrows. _Now, what was_ that _all about?_

 

* * *

 

When the bright morning light finally woke Naia, she found herself nestled in a cozy featherbed. Still drowsy, she sighed in pleasure and pulled the soft, clean quilt closer to her chin. _So comfortable. This is nice …_

“She’s awake!” a sharp, familiar voice yelled. “Cousin, can you hear me?”

Naia forced her eyes open. Shianni was sitting by her bedside; in the corner, she could see Duncan dozing, though the mabari raised his head at the sound of Shianni’s voice. “Andraste’s ass, Shianni. I think everyone in Ferelden can hear you,” she grumbled.

“That healer said you hit your head. How are you feeling?”

Suddenly, Naia remembered. “Try again, demon,” she snarled. “I escaped the Fade once before, I’ll do it again, dead or not.”

Shianni scowled, then reached out and flicked Naia’s ear. It hurt quite a lot. “Wynne also said you were hallucinating. Did that feel real?”

“Ow!” Naia yelped.

“See? I’m perfectly real,” Shianni said cheerfully. “Cousin, the whole city is talking about what you did. They’re calling you the Hero of Ferelden. They’ll have to change the laws in the alienage now that an elf saved all of Thedas.”

Naia smiled—of course Shianni’s first thought was for their friends and family in the alienage. _Maybe ... Maybe it’s not the Fade._ She doubted a Sloth demon could imitate Shianni so convincingly. “Where am I? Who else is here?”

“You’re in the royal palace. Your King had me brought from the alienage so I’d be here when you woke. Wynne was here for a while but I sent her to get some sleep. Otherwise, I think all of your companions are somewhere in the palace, except that dark-haired woman.”

Naia hesitated—but if she couldn’t tell Shianni, who could she tell? “Zevran too?”

Her cousin’s eyes danced wickedly. “I thought you might ask about him. Yes, he’s here too. He paced outside your door half the night. Are you two …?”

“It’s complicated,” Naia said with a sigh. _How_ it had become complicated, she still had little idea. Zevran had seemed completely easygoing until she’d refused that damn earring. She’d thought an invitation to share her bed at the Arl’s Denerim estate would return things to normal, but it hadn’t. _There are other things for you to focus on besides me. Do … do those,_ he’d snarled. Naia’s experience with lovers was less extensive than Zevran’s but she knew a rejection when she heard one.

Shianni arched her eyebrow. “Oh, really? Well. You promised me we’d both get extremely drunk after this was all over. I’ll ask you about it later, when you’ve had half a bottle of wine and you’re in a sharing mood,” she teased.

The door opened, and Alistair—wearing fine clothing and looking rather kingly—stepped into the room. His face broke into a relieved grin. “I knew that head of yours was too hard to suffer much from a blow,” he told her.

Shianni nodded politely. “Your Majesty.”

Alistair shook his head with a smile. “I won’t have that nonsense from Naia’s family. It was Alistair in the alienage and it’s Alistair here.”

Naia knew Shianni wouldn’t be won over so easily, not by a shem man, not after what had happened, but her cousin managed a smile in return. “Alistair, then. I should tell her father and Soris that she’s awake. I’ll be back, cousin … and don’t forget your promise. I’ll get the wine from Alarith.” She winked and was gone.

Alistair took Shianni’s place at Naia’s bedside. “I … I thought we’d never get to talk again,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “So have we convinced you you’re not in the Fade?”

Naia nodded sheepishly. “You have to admit it made sense,” she pointed out. “Alistair, how is this possible? Did you … You must have gone to Morrigan, after we talked. Or she came to you.”

“I didn’t,” Alistair admitted. “Part of me wishes I had. It was selfish to ask a Warden to die just so I wouldn’t have to sleep with that woman.” Despite his proclamation, he shuddered.

“Right. Not wanting a Theirin heir with Old God powers and Morrigan for a mother running around Thedas was incredibly selfish, because how could _that_ ever go wrong?” Naia asked sarcastically. “Don’t punish yourself, Alistair. It was stupid of me to even suggest it to you.”

Alistair shrugged. “Well, unless _you_ somehow managed to impregnate Morrigan, I have no idea what’s going on.”

Naia’s brows drew together anxiously. “Alistair, what if … what if it’s not dead?”

“You separated its head from its neck. It looked pretty dead to me.”

“No, I mean, what if the Old God jumped to another Darkspawn? There were a few stragglers around on the roof.”

Alistair’s expression grew equally worried. Naia realized he’d been feigning calm for her benefit. “I thought of that too,” he admitted. “I killed the rest of the Darkspawn on the roof after you took the blow. Or, at least, I tried. I don’t know if any got away. I suppose it’s possible, but the Old God was supposed to jump to the nearest tainted body. No one else was anywhere close to the archdemon.”

Naia pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged them close. “So all that buildup for nothing,” she said. “Some Hero of Ferelden, I can’t even bloody die right.”

“Hey, now. I will not allow anyone to insult the Warden Commander that way. What’s important is that you’re alive to keep your promise about helping me through all of this ‘king’ nonsense. The Orlesian Wardens will arrive soon, they should be able to help us figure out what happened,” Alistair promised.

Naia smiled proudly. “How about that. You’re already ordering me around, Your Majesty.”

Her comrade glowered. “Call me that again, Commander, and we’ll find out just how hard that head of yours is.”

“Oooh, I’d like to see you try,” she taunted. “Now go away. I need a bath.”

Alistair grinned at her. “Sounds like a good idea. The others have been hovering around your door, wanting to see if you’re all right. I think they’ll be more reassured if you don’t have quite so much blood in your hair.”

* 

The rest of the day followed in a bustle of activity. Servants drew Naia a very hot bath, one that finally seemed to get all of the weeks of grit and sweat and blood off her body, and helped her comb the tangles from her hair. As soon as she’d been wrapped in a thick dressing gown, Leliana appeared to discuss the appropriate attire for the next day’s ceremony in celebration of Alistair’s coronation and the victory over the Blight. The bard tried to talk her into choosing a green gown that she vowed would set off Naia’s coppery hair, but when Oghren arrived bearing a fine set of drake-scale armor—Wade’s best effort yet, inlaid handsomely with a pattern of twisting silver vines—she saw the delight in Naia’s eyes and surrendered her hope of putting her friend in Orlesian silks. Soris and her father joined her for lunch and assured her that they would be in the crowd the next day when Alistair honored her victory. Shale took the opportunity to lecture her on the drawbacks of being a soft, squishy flesh creature, then gruffly admitted she was glad that Naia had not been squished. Even Sten stopped in, expressed his approval that she was both conscious and not hallucinating, and then left, presumably to find some cookies.

Zevran, however, was nowhere to be seen.

She heard his voice, briefly, bantering with Oghren in the hallway as though he lacked a care in the world. She wanted to interrupt, to talk to him, but stopped herself in time. She wasn’t going to go begging for his attention like a kicked mabari puppy. If he wanted to say something to her he could seek her out.

He didn’t. Of course.

All the while, Naia’s thoughts kept circling back to the archdemon. She could not shake a cold sense of dread, a nagging, gnawing certainty that something simply was not right. She should not have survived that night on Fort Drakon’s roof. Either Morrigan had found some way to draw the Old God without Alistair’s seed, or …

Or the damned thing wasn’t really dead.

By the end of the day, despite the pleasures of the bath and the rest and the knowledge that her friends had all survived the battle, Naia’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point. When Shianni appeared at her door, bearing two bottles of Alarith’s best wine, she hugged her cousin around the neck and almost wept in gratitude.

“Whoa, cousin. I’m happy to see you too, but ease up before you break one of these,” Shianni cautioned her with a grin. “When Alarith heard it was for you, he couldn’t give me things fast enough. I could grow used to being the Hero of Ferelden’s favorite cousin.”

“What about Soris? I’m rather fond of him too, you know.”

Shianni looked smug. “Did he bring you wine? If not, I think I’m the favorite.”

“I’m sure the Royal Palace could have provided us with some wine,” Naia pointed out.

Her cousin made a sour face. “I’m not taking handouts from a shem lord—not even one as decent as your friend. Now, come on, Naia, you have a promise to keep.”

True to her word, as she poured the last drops of wine from the first bottle, Shianni brought up the Antivan elf. “So. You and Zevran. What’s happening between you?”

Naia swallowed hard and stared unhappily at her goblet. “I honestly have no idea, Shianni. He flirted with me shamelessly from the moment he joined us. Flirted with all of us, really. But I thought he was charming and interesting and after a while, I figured I was probably going to die anyway and I might as well take him up on it while I had the chance.”

Shianni smiled knowingly. “So that’s how he knew about your nightmares.”

“What?”

“He was here last night. You started yelling and kicking the blankets and I was going to wake Wynne, but he said you do that all the time. I figured he must have spent more than a few nights in that tent of yours.”

“Actually, he never spent the night,” Naia said in surprise.

“Cousin. You don’t expect me to believe you never …”

“Oh, no. We did, uh, that. A lot. But he’d always leave afterwards. I’d wake up and he’d be in his own tent.” Naia shook her head, trying to hide a faint blush. "Anyway. I thought we were both just … relieving tension. But right before the Landsmeet he tried to give me an earring.” As she told the story, her mind flooded with a vivid memory of that morning in Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate.

 

> _She’d accepted the earring with delight—she’d never seen anything so lovely, let alone imagined having it for herself. But when Zevran had said it was merely a thank-you, a payment for services rendered, her delight had faded almost instantly._
> 
> _“Not a token of affection, then?” she joked, trying to hide her scattered emotions._
> 
> _Zevran frowned. “I … look, just take it. It’s meant a lot to me, but so have … so has what you’ve done.”_
> 
> _Naia shook her head. “Zevran, you don’t owe me anything, we’ve fought too many battles together for that.” She dropped the gem back into his hand. “I can’t take it.”_
> 
> _“You are a very frustrating woman, do you know that? You pick up every bit of treasure we come across, but not this?” Zevran was trying to keep his voice light, but the words ended in an exasperated snarl. “Fine. You don’t want the earring, you don’t get the earring.”_  

“And after that, he hardly spoke to me,” Naia finished. “I should have just taken the damned earring.”

Shianni took another sip of her wine. “Why didn’t you? Did you want it to be a token of affection?”

Naia drew in a deep breath.  _That's the question, isn't it?_

“I think I did,” she admitted, her voice small and thin. She set her goblet down and buried her face in her hands. “I’m such an idiot, Shianni,” she mumbled through her fingers. “Damn it. It was just supposed to be some fun. I didn’t think I’d live long enough for it to get complicated.”

“Would you rather be dead?” Shianni asked pointedly.

“All right, fair point.” Naia pulled her hands away from her face and wrenched the cork out of the second bottle of wine. “So what do I do now?”

“Do you love him?”

“How in Andraste’s name would I know something like that?” Naia protested. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Zev doesn’t—I mean, _if_ I did, he wouldn’t feel the same. He’s been perfectly clear about that.”

Shianni’s mouth twisted in an exasperated half-smile. “You’re right, Naia. You are an idiot.”

“I beg your pardon?” the Warden said, with all the dignity she could muster while slightly tipsy.

“Think about it, cousin. Men might give jewelry to women they don’t care about—but they don’t pace outside your door when you’re hurt. And they certainly don’t wait around after sex to watch you sleep. Now stop hoarding the wine.”


	3. Answers to questions

* * *

 

Naia had expected to wake with a wicked hangover, but her head felt surprisingly clear the next morning. A good thing, too, since Leliana bounced into her room soon after the sun rose to help her style her hair.

“I thought you said you liked the way I wear my hair!” Naia protested as the bard pulled out dozens of gem-studded pins and clips and began holding them up to her head.

“Oh, yes, it is very becoming. But surely you would not object to a little change, today of all days. All of Ferelden has turned out to get a glimpse of their hero.”

Naia was getting rather tired of hearing the word “hero,” but she couldn’t bring herself to snap at her friend. Nor could she bear to tell Leliana the truth: that she was supposed to die on the roof of Fort Drakon. The only logical explanation she could come up with was that the Archdemon was still alive, that she’d somehow botched the killing blow. _I’m not a hero, Leliana. Just a fraud._

As Naia fretted, Leliana subjected her hair to a thorough series of experiments. After what felt like hours, the Orlesian bard determined that the best look for the armor was to pile Naia’s hair in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. The style, despite its apparent simplicity, required an astonishing number of hairpins.

The Orlesian bard had just helped her secure all of the straps on her new drake-scale armor when Alistair knocked on the door to her chamber. “I hope you’re almost ready, the citizens of Denerim are packed three hundred deep outside the palace,” he called through the door. “I’d like to pretend it’s for my coronation, but I think they’d rather see you.”

“Come in!” Naia called.

Alistair pushed the door open and grinned broadly at her. “Well, how about that. You look splendid, Commander.”

Naia gaped. Alistair was wearing heavy golden armor, the most elaborate she’d ever seen, and his bearing was confident—more than confident, regal. She almost didn’t recognize her friend. “So do you, Your Majesty,” she said with a little curtsy.

“Now, what did I tell you about calling me that? All right, that’s it.” Alistair made a playful grab for his fellow Warden; Naia danced away, grinning.

Leiliana cried out in alarm. “Do not muss her hair!”

“Sorry, sorry,” the King said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Come on, Hero, let’s get these ceremonies over with.”

* 

“The coronation will be first, then there will be a speech in honor of your victory. I’m planning to grant the arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens,” Alistair told her as they descended the stairs to the throne room. “The Howes are in no position to oppose, not after what Rendon did in the basement of the Denerim estate. And I’m going to offer you a reward for what you’ve done. Have you any thought as to what you might like?”

“Fair treatment and justice for the elves in all of Ferelden’s alienages,” Naia said promptly. “But I trust you to do that anyway. Amaranthine for the Wardens is enough for me, Alistair.”

“How would you like to be the first Bann of the Denerim alienage?” Alistair suggested.

“Not me. Shianni.”

“Shianni!” said Alistair, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Don’t let her fool you. She’s got a temper—”

“Really? She has a temper, and she’s related to _you_? Will wonders never cease!”

“—but she’s smart and determined, and she won’t be intimidated by human nobles,” Naia finished, pretending she didn’t hear the King. “Besides, I’ll be in Amaranthine rebuilding the Wardens. Shianni will know better what the elves need.”

“Hmmm. I wonder how many heart attacks the members of the bannorn will have when I introduce Bann Shianni of the Alienage?” Alistair looked positively delighted at the thought.

Naia smiled back. She wanted to let him simply enjoy the moment, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Alistair … have you thought at all about what might have happened at Fort Drakon? Why I’m still alive, I mean?”

The King quickened his steps. “Not really,” he lied. “We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

* 

The long Chantry ceremony that preceded Alistair’s coronation seemed to take years, though Naia did enjoy the sour expression on the face of the Grand Cleric when she blessed Alistair’s reign. Presumably it was the same Grand Cleric who had tried to prevent Alistair from leaving the Templars. She wondered if the woman’s bitterness was over having a Grey Warden as King or over losing the opportunity to have a lyrium-addicted Templar on the throne.

To her surprise, Naia felt nervous when Alistair called her to his side. _I shouldn’t be here,_ she thought, gazing out over the crowd. _Don’t applaud. I should be dead. What will they do when they realize the Archdemon is still alive?_

Her fellow Warden knew her well enough to realize that the lofty praises of her victory was causing her distress; to her relief, Alistair smoothly moved on to the part of his speech where he announced reforms for the alienages of Ferelden. She heard her father gasp aloud when Alistair announced that Shianni would be a noblewoman, though Shianni herself just looked stunned, and Soris couldn’t smother a bit of astonished laughter. When the ceremonies ended she ran to her family and hugged them each in turn. The alienage had suffered tremendously, but she knew it would be rebuilt in time—and without any signs promising death for elves with swords.

Soris was teasing Cyrion about his new status as the father of the Hero of Ferelden when Shianni abruptly shushed him. “We should leave Naia to more important things. I doubt she wants to spend her celebration listening to your babbling, Soris.”

“No! You can’t leave me,” insisted Naia, reaching for her cousin’s hand.

“We won’t be far,” Shianni said reassuringly before grabbing Naia’s arms, spinning her around, and giving her a firm shove in the opposite direction. Naia found herself stumbling right into a man dressed in a red doublet. She looked up at him to apologize, but the apology died in her mouth when she realized who it was. _Damn you, Shianni._

“I … Zevran. I haven’t seen you since Fort Drakon. How are you?” she asked, taking a quick step back.

“Well enough. These formal events always make me nervous,” he said, tugging at the collar of his fine clothes. “They are perfect places for assassins to strike.”

“You don’t think the Crows will still come after you,” Naia said with alarm.

Zevran shrugged. “Not immediately, no. But I should not stay in one place too long. Who knows when the Crows may regain their urge to hunt me?”

“Well. You’ll always be welcome at Amaranthine,” Naia said, forcing a friendly smile.

“I may take you up on that someday,” the assassin said nonchalantly. “Perhaps the Wardens could use a mascot.”

Naia swallowed hard. “Listen, Zev …”

“Now is not the time for a lengthy conversation. We can talk later, yes?” Before she could respond, he’d turned away.

She watched him slip into the throng, cursing her own stupidity. _Honestly. Who falls for their own assassin?_

 

* * *

 

After the ceremony was finally over, the feast conducted, and the bannorn cleared out to return to their Denerim estates, Alistair felt as exhausted as he’d ever been in his life. Battle gave him adrenaline; these endless kingly formalities were just bloody boring.

But when he reached his bedchamber, he found that he couldn’t sleep. After starting up at the ceiling for an hour or so, he tossed the covers aside with a sigh and set out on a solitary walk around the Royal Palace.

_Why is Naia still alive?_

He hated asking that question. Naia had become like a sister to him, and he was much happier throwing her a hero’s celebration instead of a hero’s funeral—but Riordan had been crystal clear about what would happen to the Warden who killed the archdemon. Had the archdemon’s death gone wrong somehow? Was there a Genlock with an Old God’s soul somewhere in Ferelden, transforming into the next archdemon while they celebrated a hollow victory?

Or—oh, Maker—had Morrigan somehow gotten him to perform the ritual without his knowledge? _That’s even more disturbing than a new archdemon._

As he passed the kitchen, a rustling, clanking sound drew his attention away from the Archdemon puzzle. _Andraste’s blood. Has Duncan got into the larder?_ Alistair pushed the door open, hoping the dog would obey him if he yelled at it loudly enough.

But the mabari was nowhere in sight.

Instead, Zevran was sitting at a table in the kitchen, an odd array of foods in front of him—cake, some meat, ale, a bowl of soup, and a half-eaten loaf of bread. The elf was barely stopping to chew, but he put his spoon down to greet Alistair with a friendly wave. “Hello, Your Majesty! Your staff has been most hospitable. It seems they will trade any leftovers for a few tales of how I helped fight the Blight alongside their new King.”

“A few tales? It must have been more than a few, to earn you all that. The last time I put away that much food, I was …”

When he remembered exactly when and why he’d last eaten so much, Alistair felt his heart skip a beat—several beats, in fact. _The Joining left me famished._ The puzzle that had haunted him since Fort Drakon suddenly had a solution. “Maker’s breath. It was _you._ ” His legs felt weak, and he collapsed on a nearby stool.

“Hmm? I am not sure I know what you are talking about, Alistair." Zevran nonchalantly dabbed at a crumb on his lips with the corner of a napkin. "I hope I did not eat something reserved for royal consumption.”

“You’re a bloody Warden!”

“Oh, come now, my friend. Because I’m hungry, I must be a Warden? There are some bodily fluids even I will not touch,” the elf said flippantly.

“Well, apparently Darkspawn blood isn’t one of them. Bloody hell. Did Riordan put you up to this? I—no, of course not. It was Morrigan, wasn’t it. You did the ritual, gave her that Old God demon-baby … thing. Gaaah!” Alistair’s head swam. “Why would you _do_ that?!”

Zevran’s merry smirk evaporated. He turned his head to stare at Alistair and for a moment he simply glared, his expression close to hatred.

“Why? _Why?_ ” he asked softly, rising from the table. “I think the better question is, why wouldn’t you?" A slight shake entered his voice. "Were you so confident Riordan would succeed—so sure your fellow Warden’s life was worth less than your virtue, _Your Majesty_? You knew that she might die and you did _nothing_!” He almost spat the last word at Alistair.

“How could I let Morrigan raise a royal bastard with Old God powers and a claim to the throne?” Alistair protested. “I wanted to take the blow myself. You heard me tell Naia I would do it.”

The elf snorted in disgust. “Of course you did. You never thought for a moment she would let you.”

Alistair wanted to be angry with the assassin, but Maker help him, he wasn’t. He actually felt grateful. And rather sorry for the poor bastard, though perhaps not everyone found the idea of sex with Morrigan quite as horrifying as he did. “Does Naia know?”

Zevran shook his head. “No. I did not tell her. And I do not intend to.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I will not have her tied to me out of pity or obligation,” the assassin snapped.

Alistair leaned back on his seat, briefly stunned into silence by the agony in Zevran’s eyes. _Well, what do you know. You love her, don’t you? You actually love her._

The king almost said those words to the elf, but some invisible, mysterious wisdom stopped him, warning him that Zevran might not be ready to admit to that particular emotion. “Do you know what she said to me, when she thought she was going to die?” he said instead. “She said, ‘Tell Zev I’m sorry.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“Ah. She must have been the one who stole my poisons. You may tell her I forgive her, I would not have let me keep them either under the circumstances.”

The ex-templar sighed. “You don’t want to talk about it.”

Zevran crossed his arms. “How extremely astute, Your Majesty. And to think Morrigan said you didn’t have the brains to be king.”

The barb didn’t even bother Alistair. “Look, Zevran. Naia’s been half out of her mind worrying that the archdemon might still be alive somewhere. If you don’t tell her, I’ll have to. But I think it should come from you. It might smooth things over, since the two of you seem to be … at odds, at the moment.”

“Advice on women from a man raised in the Chantry? How valuable. I think I will consult Oghren next. At least he’s bedded a woman, even if the experience did lead her to prefer her own sex.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, it’s like talking to a Chanter, except instead of reciting the Chant you recite lewd insults.” Alistair shook his head. “Have it your way for now, Zevran. But this isn’t over.”

The assassin shrugged indifferently and returned to his seat, reaching once more for his spoon.

Alistair rose from his chair and turned to leave the room, but paused briefly at the kitchen door. “She’s probably still awake, you know,” he added.

Zevran had no reaction to that, except to take another large bite of his bread. With a quiet frown, Alistair left.


	4. Past and future

As soon as he was certain the new King was out of earshot, Zevran slammed his fist down on the table as hard as he could. His ale spilled and his hand stung, but it did make him feel a bit better. He drew a shuddering breath and sat down at the table, staring at his half-eaten midnight feast. Hunger still gnawed at him, reminding him of the bargain that had brought him to this place. 

 

> _When he heard the knock at his door that night at Redcliffe, he expected it would be Naia, though he was unsure if that pleased him or not. Almost every waking moment since Taliesin’s reappearance had been consumed with trying to puzzle out his feelings for the Warden, and wondering what she might feel for him in return. He had assumed that their affair meant little to her until she asked if the earring was a token of affection. Taken by surprise, he had lacked the courage to admit the truth, and he knew she’d been confused by his refusal to join her in her room in Denerim after accepting the offer happily dozens of times in the camp. He had no idea what he’d say to her to explain his odd behavior—_
> 
> _—but his mental agony proved unnecessary. The person at the door was Morrigan._
> 
> _“What, no proper greeting?” the sorceress purred._
> 
> _“I am merely surprised, my dear. Please do come in.”_
> 
> _Morrigan smiled invitingly as she entered Zevran’s room. All of the hair on the back of his neck stood up. “I have a proposition for you, Zevran—one I suspect you’ll find appealing, unless all that talk of seducing me was a tease.”_
> 
> _“Oh, come now, lovely Morrigan. I know you well enough to realize this must be some sort of dark ritual,” he joked. “I do not wish to wake up a frog tomorrow, not when a Darkspawn army awaits.”_
> 
> _Quick as a summer storm, Morrigan’s expression turned from a smile to an ugly snarl. “You little wretch. You were listening.”_
> 
> _“Listening? Listening to what? My dear, I assure you that all I have done tonight is sit in my chamber and sharpen my blades. And no, that was not a euphemism. You don’t mean to tell me that you really are proposing some sort of dark ritual. Not that I don’t find the possibility intriguing, but _—_ ”_
> 
> _“Do you know how an archdemon is killed?”_
> 
> _“Much the same as any other creature, I would imagine,” Zevran replied casually. “Cut off its head, stab it through the heart, feed it some poison _—_ though you’d need quite a lot of poison to kill something so large, it is hardly a practical approach in this situation.”_
> 
> _Morrigan sighed in disgust. “Does your prattle never cease, assassin? What I have to tell you is important.”_
> 
> _"For you, or for me?”_
> 
> _“I suppose it depends. Do you care if Naia survives tomorrow’s battle?”_
> 
> _Zevran suddenly felt very cold. Morrigan continued. “I think you care a great deal. And if you don’t do what I propose she will almost certainly die.”_
> 
> _He turned away from the sorceress to hide his expression. If there had been any doubt about his feelings for the Warden, the thought of her dead certainly offered some clarity. He felt as though he might faint, or throw up._
> 
> _Morrigan interrupted his silence. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Indeed, I must be. How foolish I was. I see it all now. Well-played, assassin. ‘Twas most expedient of you to put yourself in the good graces of the one who chose whether you lived or died. But a man of your experience would never develop a real attachment—certainly not for a naive little elf-girl from some filthy Ferelden alienage. It must have been amusing to seduce her, though I expect that bedding her proved rather dull in the end.”_
> 
> _Zevran’s hands tightened into fists. Morrigan continued. “I must say, ‘twas a masterwork of manipulation. I think she genuinely cares for you, the more fool she. Did you laugh to see that pathetic look in her eyes?”_
> 
> _In a white rage, Zevran spun to face the shapeshifter. His knife was out of its sheath and in his hand before he could regain control of himself._
> 
> _Morrigan smiled triumphantly. “Ah. You do care. How touching.”_
> 
> _With shaking hands, Zevran put his blade away. “You have my attention, Morrigan.”_
> 
> _Morrigan described the Warden’s fate, and her plan, in a few succinct sentences. “But that fool Alistair has refused me and Naia won’t press him on it. If Riordan fails—which seems likely, he is rather old and creaky—you must know that Naia will kill the archdemon herself rather than see the King dead. And so, here is what I propose. I have some Genlock blood. We take the rest of the supplies from Riordan—surely you can manage that—and make you a Warden. I know the magic required. Then you complete my ritual, and whatever happens on the morrow, Naia will be safe. At least, safe from that particular death. You’ll have to protect her from the rest.”_
> 
> _Zevran scowled. Drink demon blood, sentence himself to an early death, and father a child on this witch? Surely it was madness. How could he even be sure the ritual would work?_
> 
> _Memories came to him, unbidden. Rinna, begging for her life. His silence as Taliesen slit his lover’s throat and his horror when he’d learned the truth of their betrayal. His first good look at Naia, splattered in blood, her red hair pulled back in a messy braid, grimly determined and far prettier than Loghain’s sketch had indicated. The thoughtful look in her eyes as she listened to his story of how he came to the Crows and the shock he’d felt when she agreed to take him into her service. A pair of Dalish gloves, the first gift anyone had ever given him. That first night in her tent, the feeling of her mouth on his, her body against his. Her compassion when he’d finally told her the full story of his last mission for the Crows._
> 
> _“Very well. Genlock blood and dark rituals it is.”_
> 
> _“I must warn you, you might die from the Joining.”_
> 
> _Zevran shrugged. “That does not disturb me. As I told you once, all really good assassins have a death wish.”_

Morrigan had been as good as her word. The archdemon was dead, Naia was alive. And he couldn’t face her. He still lacked the words to explain what he’d done, much less why he’d done it. He’d thought to simply vanish, to go and lead the new life she’d promised him once the Blight was ended—it was certainly simpler than staying around. But he had not anticipated how powerfully the Taint compelled him to seek out Darkspawn. Without the Wardens, without Naia, all that awaited him was a lonely death on a Genlock’s blade. Once, he’d sought that death, but now?

For the first time since Fort Drakon, he realized he wasn’t hungry. Frustrated, he pushed himself away from the table and left the kitchen, half-running even though he had no destination in mind.

As he wove through the halls of the Denerim palace, his mind racing, he realized there was only one place he could go.

 

* * *

 

After the celebratory feast, Naia quietly slipped away to her chamber and took another hot bath. Strictly speaking, she didn't need it, but she couldn't resist indulging herself after the months spent bathing in half-frozen streams. Besides, the heat soothed the ache in her head, a combination of the day's constant noise and the pull of Leliana's hairpins.

When the water started to cool, she stepped out and dried herself off, then walked over to the trunk where the servants had told her she could find her clothing. To her dismay, she found it filled with various silk fripperies—Leliana's idea, she had no doubt—but at the bottom of the chest she discovered a plain man's tunic, likely placed there by accident. It was much too large for her slim elven frame but she put it on anyway, ignoring the way it drooped off one shoulder.

Her chamber had a large window, and she pushed open the panes and breathed in the warm night, listening to the late celebrations in the Denerim streets. She wondered how things were going in the alienage. Shianni had admitted that there was much to be repaired, but she expected the elves too would be drinking to their successful defense of their home.

"You should not stand in a window, out in the open like that. It is a perfect place for an assassin's arrow to find you."

With a great wrench of will, Naia forced herself to not turn around. "Always thinking of work, eh, Zev?" she asked. _Is he here to say goodbye?_

Zevran didn't answer, not right away. Instead, he moved next to her and stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the city.

"Do you see any assassins taking aim at us?" she joked.

"I slept with Morrigan."

Naia's stomach did a sick little flip. This is what he'd come to tell her? She crossed her arms, hugging them close to her chest. "Oh, indeed? How was she?" she asked, as if she couldn't care less who else her fellow elf bedded.

Zevran shook his head with a frustrated growl. "You are missing my point entirely. The night before the battle, at Redcliffe. She had me steal a goblet from Riordan and drink some Darkspawn blood first. Does that sound familiar?"

The world spun around Naia. _This is why I'm still alive. Maker, how? Why?_

Her legs began to wobble and she dropped her hands to steady herself on the windowsill. Her palms scraped against the stone as she fought for control. "Zev, you didn't," she whispered, her heart in her throat. "The Taint is a death sentence, you know that. Why?"

Her lover shook his head, his mouth tense. "I did it because she told me you would die if I did not. It seemed reason enough at the time."

"And now?"

Zevran's eyes met hers. "Now, I am the father of some sort of demon god. I dream of Darkspawn and I am always famished. And yes, it still seems reason enough, now. I did not wish you to die, my Warden."

Naia had no idea what to say, or what to feel. Anger seemed as good an option as any. "Oh, so it's back to 'my Warden' now, is it?" she snapped, pushing away from the windowsill and walking to the middle of the room. "Zev, you—you're impossible!" She spun back to face him, her hands flung up in exasperation. "You're in my tent every night, apparently happy enough to be there, and then all of a sudden you push me aside like I disgust you and you won't say two words to me. And now you're telling me that you drank Darkspawn blood and slept with Morrigan to save my life? What in the hells do you want me to say? You're the most confusing man in Thedas!"

"Oh, indeed?" Zevran asked, his upper lip curling. He crossed his arms defensively. "If you've only become confused since we reached Denerim, you have had it rather easy, my Warden. Ever since that first night in your tent I have been nothing but confused."

"Really. You seemed confident enough at the time," Naia taunted.

She expected Zevran to storm out, but he just closed his eyes and dropped his hands to his side, his fists clenched in frustration. "I … how can I explain this to you?" He drew a shuddering breath. "The Crows are trained to harden themselves, to focus on the kill. I did not _want_ to feel the way I feel. I know all too well how these things can end. I did not know what to say or do when I realized I—when I realized what you had become to me. When Morrigan came to me that night, all I knew was that I could not let you die." He opened his eyes, then, and met her gaze with a pained expression. "Do you understand me at all?"

Naia stood in stunned silence, her anger cooling as quickly as it had flared. _Shianni's right. I am an idiot._ She let out her breath in a silent rush. "I'm no better at this than you, Zev," she said finally. "But I think I understand. I didn't know what to say either. When I … realized."

It wasn't exactly an eloquent declaration of her feelings. But Zevran seemed to understand. Hope flared in his eyes as he took a step towards her. "Is there a future for us, Naia?" he said tentatively. "Some possibility ofI do not know what, exactly."

A future? How could anyone promise such a thing? Naia almost laughed, but she could see that Zevran was truly serious. The Blight was over, but what lay beyond that—how could she know? What could she hope to offer him?

"Come with me to Amaranthine," she said suddenly, reaching her hand out for his. "Help me rebuild the Wardens. I can't promise what will happen tomorrow, or after that, but I would like to see what the future holds for us there."

Zevran closed his eyes. Naia was afraid she'd offended him until she saw the small smile curving his lips—not his usual arrogant grin, but something far more unsure. "Then that is enough for me," he said, stepping forward and taking her hand. "Yes. I will go with you to the Wardens, if you will have me."

Naia felt an answering smile pull at the corners of her mouth, and soon she was grinning, her face alight. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't mean it, you idiot."

Zevran opened his eyes and looked at her. When he saw her smile, his grew to match. Gently, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.

The kiss was undemanding, almost chaste. Naia reveled in it for a moment, but she soon wanted more. Her lips parted and her arms wrapped around Zevran's body, pulling him close. She heard him groan in pleasure, and his kiss grew hungrier, more savage. One hand tangled in her damp hair; the other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close.

When Naia couldn't stand it anymore, she broke the kiss, pressed her lips to his ear, and whispered, "Care to join me in my bed?"

For once, Zevran had no joke for her. He merely laughed under his breath, then pulled her tunic over her head, threw it to the corner of her chamber, and pulled her back into his arms, running his hands over her bare skin, kissing her neck and shoulders as she arched herself against him. In the end, they never made it to the bed—Naia wasn't sure which of them pulled the other down to the floor, but she was soon gasping for breath, all coherent thought abandoned as her lover pressed his body against hers.

The next morning, when Naia woke, she found Zevran sleeping soundly beside her.


End file.
